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A storm settled over his face. He bent down, and I could see the madness and violence mingling in his eyes. “You don’t get to say shit,” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth and settling on my cheek. “I’m the one in control here. Not you. I’m the one who’s got the gun. Who will fucking kill you if you don’t do everything I say.”
I stared into the abyss of his eyeballs, frozen. Because I saw the truth there. He did fully intend on killing me.
I was tied to the bed.
In my underwear.
I didn’t remember my clothes being taken off.
I couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing.
The pain was the bad thing. It sucked. A lot. He’d decided that being in control meant he pretty much got to beat the shit out of me.
He’d pistol-whipped me finally, and I’d lost consciousness. Which he’d taken advantage of. My entire body ached. My ribs screamed. One of my eyes was swollen shut.
On a good note, I hadn’t been raped.
Yet.
I was thinking that being handcuffed to the bed in my underwear meant it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
I was not getting raped. I would die first.
I had to get out of there.
He wasn’t in my bedroom, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think he was gone.
The thump of a bass from my sound system in the living room told me he was still in the house. Somewhere. My instincts told me that too.
Men like that were unpredictable. Men who valued women little more than slaves and thought beating them was acceptable. Bullies. Just like the ones in high school. If you stood up to a bully, most of the time they moved onto weaker prey. They were cowards at the end of the day.
But there was a small percentage of those bullies who wouldn’t move on. Who refused to be bested, to become the weak one. So they bided their time, made it their mission to make you pay. So much so that it consumed their minds and they would do whatever it took to get their victory. With little thought to consequences.
Kevin obviously thought his victory was raping me, degrading me, showing me that he was in control, and then killing me. The consequences of that were a slow and painful death if my family ever found out.
So I guessed the killing me portion would go toward making sure I couldn’t point the finger at him, since none of my family knew about him. I had given him the ingredients to get away with murder. They wouldn’t be looking into my life if I turned up brutalized and dead.
They’d be looking into their own.
Into their history.
To a time when this had happened before. To my beautiful friend.
And that time it had been on the club. They’d assume that would be the case this time. And they’d be so blinded by hate that they’d most likely start a war. And there would be blood. On both sides.
Like before.
I would not let that happen.
I would not let any blood be spilled because of me. Not my family’s. Not my own.
Luckily, being a biker princess meant my bedroom may have been home to kick-ass furnishings, almost the entirety of Sephora’s makeup department, and some well-cared-for secondhand designer footwear, but it also held an arsenal that rivaled that of a small-town police station.
Though most of it wasn’t within reach since both of my hands were handcuffed above my head on my wrought-iron headboard. I craned my head upward, ignoring my battered body’s painful protest.
“Man, he used my own handcuffs? What a dick,” I whispered to myself.
I knew I only had a limited amount of time before Kevin came back from whatever he was doing, so I didn’t screw around. There was a gun taped underneath my bed on my left side, but I was handcuffed slightly to the right and I wouldn’t reach it.
The knife underneath my mattress on the right it was.
I shimmied awkwardly, my hands not giving much in the handcuffs. Mostly because I was an idiot and didn’t get the soft erotic kind. No, I had to go authentic.
Yes, I was aware that I needed a therapist to dissect that.
My body screamed at me as I moved, my ribs so painful I almost vomited.
I didn’t, of course. I was a Fletcher.
By birth, I was a Templar.
More importantly, I was Rosie.
I bit my lip as I tried to work my hands downward enough to reach my mattress. The swirl of my headboard that I’d thought so fucking artful was what hindered me, stopping at least six inches short of where I needed to be.
Frustrated tears streamed down my face.
“Fuck!” I hissed.
“Not trying to get away, are we, babe?” Kevin asked pleasantly.
My eyes snapped to him. He was in his underwear—boxer briefs. Scattered tattoos decorated his muscled body, the one I’d used to excuse all of his hideous behavior. Before he’d started hitting me, of course; no amount of muscles in the world could excuse that.
